The Tuxedo
by redexted
Summary: It's a tuxedo! It's a spiffy, kickass tuxedo! And Butch is going to have to wear it on a... date. With Buttercup, no less. Oh, the horrors! Can Butch ever look at a tuxedo the same way again? ButterButch madness!
1. Spitfire

Somewhat inspired by the Jackie Chan movie of the same title.

Note: This fic has been _heavily edited_ — all anime references, in-story author's notes, uppercase abuse, multiple exclamation points and smartass narration styles in the original have been removed — but the canonical snarkiness of the characters remain. Yay!

Disclaimer: All related characters and elements are (c) Craig McCracken.

**The Tuxedo  
**_Chapter 1: Spitfire_

* * *

Under an indigo sky of stars and in a particular house in the suburbs of Townsville, three girls sat in front of a television set, sniggering and slapping their hands against the carpet as they watched an animation of comical stunts and actions.

"Lookadat!" Buttercup yelled. "He's, he's going to . . ."

_Splat!_

". . . fall down," groaned Bubbles. Then she pouted. "That's so careless of him, isn't it?"

"For goodness sake, it's just a _cartoon!_ Who cares whether he's injured or not!"

"Shut up, Buttercup," Blossom snapped.

"_You_ shut up, Red. This has got nothing to do with you!"

Blossom turned away from the television screen and glared at her green-eyed sibling. "Excuse me," she said testily, "I'm the eldest one here. And you listen to _me_—"

"Watch what you're saying!" Buttercup yelled back. "Who says you have every right to tell me what to say and what to do?"

Bubbles whimpered, hugging her beloved Octi. "Please . . . I don't want to see you two quarrel . . ."

"_Girls!_" came the Professor's yell from downstairs. "What's happening?"

Buttercup crossed her arms and stared at the moving pictures on TV furiously, not saying a word.

Blossom sighed, and hovered out of the room. "Nothing, Professor," she called towards the closed laboratory door on the first floor. Then, to herself, she muttered, "Yeah, why not just _kill_ her one day? I can't believe anyone can actually _stand_ being with her . . . I can't believe I have such an unruly sister . . ."

– – –

". . . I can't believe I have such a pathetic brother! Arrgh!" Brick yanked off his cap and tore at his hair.

Butch was sulking. "What do you expect me to do anyway . . ." he mumbled.

"You know, bro," Boomer said enthusiastically, scooting over to Butch. "If you really like her, then _tell_ her! You don't expect her to know without you confessing, right?"

"Shut up, Boomer!" Butch cried. "You're confusing me!"

"Aw, come on, Butch. I faced the same problem once, didn't I? And I told _her_ all the same, didn't I? And now?" A pink heart appeared in each of Boomer's dark blue eyes as a dreamy, ridiculous grin the size of Texas crawled its way up his face. "I've never been more _contented_ in my entire life . . ."

"Yeah, now you look sexually deprived," Butch muttered.

"_Butch!_"

Butch stared at his redheaded brother, blinking those wide green eyes of his innocently. "Did I say something wrong?" he asked.

"_Arrgh!_" Brick threw his cap down onto the floor and flew to the phone. He picked up the receiver and put it to his ear (assuming he has any).

There was no dial tone.

"Dang," Brick grumbled, slamming down the receiver. "The line's cut."

"We didn't pay for this lousy apartment, bro," Boomer reminded him. "No water, no phone line, no nothing." He spread out his arms to indicate this, as the small room they were in was only furnished with an old mattress, a square table and a dim ceiling light. _And_ the useless telephone. "They're gonna cut off all the electricity next month."

"Then why don't _you_ pay instead?" Brick flared.

"Knock it off, you two!" Butch was wailing by then. "I already have _my_ troubles! Just shut the hell _uuppppp_ . . ."

Boomer stared thoughtfully at the broken grilles of their solitary window. Then, with a quick "I'll be back!" to the other two, he glided out of it and dived out of sight. Half a second later he zoomed back with a black object in his hand.

"Mobile," he grinned triumphantly. "The fossils downstairs are out."

"You _stole?_" Butch cried.

"Hey—" Boomer shrugged — "for the sake and future happiness of my beloved bro, I'd do _anything_."

Butch cringed.

Brick snatched the mobile phone from Boomer and punched in several numbers, before shoving it to Butch's ear (assuming he has any). "Ask her," he ordered.

"Ask her _what?_"

"Out. Saturday night."

Butch's emerald green eyes widened in horror. "_Brick!_" he yelled, suddenly hysterical. "Damn you _traitor!_ Wha— what am I supposed to—"

"I'm warning you, _watch your mouth_." Brick pointed at the phone and glared at his brother fiercely. "Buttercup's gonna pick it up anytime!"

"But—"

_Click._

– – –

"Hello? Utonium residence."

"Phf . . . schm—"

Blossom stared at the receiver. _Weirdo,_ she thought.

"_Hello-o?_"

"Um, uh . . ." There was a splutter from the other end. "This is — this is Butch. Can I speak to, um . . ."

"_Oh,_" said Blossom, nodding her head in sudden comprehension. "So you want to speak to _Buttercup._" Said sister glared at Blossom, who only gave a dismissive laugh. "Hold on."

Buttercup snatched the receiver from Blossom's hand. "_Drop dead,_" she hissed. Blossom merely huffed and went back to sitting down before the TV. Buttercup then put the phone to her ear (assuming she has any).

"Whassup," she said.

"_Phsfrm!_"

"Huh?" She frowned.

She heard some scruffles. Then Brick's voice came on: "Hey, lil' Butchie here has _something_ to tell you!"

She blinked. "Oh."

More shoving at the other end. "Uh, Buttercup?"

"_Butch?_"

Buttercup raised an eyebrow (assuming she has any). Bubbles giggled. Blossom's face looked like a thundercloud.

"Oh, _Butch!_" she exclaimed in a deliberately loud voice. She shot Blossom a triumphant look — one that might have said 'See, now boys are starting to call me, and Bubbles has too, and you haven't got a single one so _there!_' or something similar.

By then, Blossom was fuming so much that her face was turning a colour several shades deeper than her eyes. She stomped to the TV and switched it off, then flew back into her own room. (Apparently, Blossom and Buttercup argued so much that Blossom moved into her own room. With the Professor's approval, of course.)

"Hey," Bubbles whined, rising into the air to switch the TV on again. Blossom's bedroom door slammed in reply.

Buttercup chuckled at the commotion, then listened to the other end of the line. "What?" she asked.

"Pfstch . . ."

"_What?_ Speak up!"

"Sprchtltr . . . !"

If Pandora's Box contained Hope, then Buttercup's held Impatience and nothing else. Naturally she got fed up. "If you don't speak properly I'm gonna hang up," she warned.

" _. . . and so the day is saved — thanks to . . . the Urnshole Gang!_"

"Yay!" This was Bubbles cheering and clapping at the booming TV set.

Buttercup frowned —

"_AAAaarrrgghhh!_" This was the sound of Blossom screaming into her pillow.

— and twitched —

Miscellaneous muffled thumps. This was the sound of said sister slamming said pillow against the walls and ceiling.

— and gritted her teeth —

"_Girls!_ Keep quiet! I'm trying to concentrate here!" This was Professor Utonium. The one and only.

— and clenched her fists —

"_We are the Urnshole Gang, saving the world from all bad slang . . ._" This was the end credits of the earlier cartoon.

— and _cracked_ the receiver, oh dear —

"_Shut up!_ Shut up all of you! SHUT UP!" This was Buttercup.

And this was silence.

"And _you!_" she hollered into the phone. "When I want _them_ to shut up _they_ make noise! And when I want _you_ to talk _you_ shut up! What is wrong with you?"

At the other end of the phone, the poor boy was almost hyperventilating from fright and shock at how Buttercup — the girl he actually wanted to _go out_ with — had suddenly turned into such a monster.

This was still silence. At least, until Butch finally spoke up.

"I-it's like this, Buttercup . . . I was . . . I was just wondering if you'll be f-f-free this Saturday night a-a-at six—"

"_What for?_ Are you trying to get me away from the house so that those brothers of yours can raid our fridge after bedtime?"

"No! It's—"

Someone snatched the phone from Butch. "It's a _date!_" the interrupter hissed.

"I don't care whether it's a _date_ or a _day_ or a _month_ or a _year_ or _whatever!_" Buttercup exploded. "And even if it's a date you'd better turn up at the lamp post at the park entrance in a proper tuxedo with a suitable present _or else!_ And can't you talk for yourself?"

"I can! But they— _give it back!_ It's _my _girl! And— Buttercup, I-I-I take that as a yes—"

The receiver snapped clean into half.

– – –

"Hung up?"

Butch pressed the red button on the mobile dejectedly. "She said—"

"We heard," Boomer sighed. "She was practically screaming into your ear (assuming you have any)."

Brick flipped his cap back onto his head, sighing. "So, is she serious about that tuxedo thing?" he wondered.

Butch shrugged.

Both Brick and Boomer exchanged knowing glances.

"Well, for the sake and future of our _beloved_ brother—" Brick slapped his hand onto Butch's left shoulder and squeezed it tightly, while Boomer looked on sniggering — "I will help you. Just this _once._"

"Sure . . ." Butch strained a grin at both of them.

_-tbc-_

* * *

I hope that worked out fine! :D

Anyway, this fic will be more focused on the RRB, and therefore the girls will be a _little_ more crude, too. Blossom here is also a little more jealous, bossy and sarcastic than usual.

Stay tuned!


	2. Tomboy

Ahh, this is so long winded!

Enjoy anyway! :D

Disclaimer: All related characters and elements are (c) Craig McCracken.

**The Tuxedo  
**_Chapter 2: Tomboy_

* * *

The man in the tailor shop looked down, frowning as his fingers stroked his slick black goatee. He drummed his fingers on the glass counter.

"You?" he asked, raising a long eyebrow.

His little customer flashed his most innocent smile and nodded.

He turned to the other two standing beside the customer. "All three of you?" he asked again.

Brick and Boomer chorused "No".

"He has a _date_," Brick explained.

"Saturday night!" cried Boomer.

"So he needs a proper tuxedo to impress his girl."

"Yeah! Get him something that really _fits._"

"Not only that. He must look _good_."

"It's all for his future happiness!"

"And we're willing to sacrifice a _little_ just for him."

"Because . . ."

"Because we're the _Rowdyruff Boys!_"

"And we're broke," Boomer added under his breath.

Now the man raised _both_ his eyebrows. "Oh? Then what do you suggest?"

"We'll see," said Brick vaguely.

Butch floated up and sat on the counter while his brothers wandered into the stock room and oohed and aahed at the array of suits hanging neatly on hangers and racks, and at all the different fabrics available. The shop owner only continued observing the green boy.

"Do you have one my size?" Butch asked the tailor hopefully.

"What _is _your size?"

"Um . . . XXXXS?"

Butch sighed. _At this rate we're going,_ he thought miserably, _there's no way I can ever make her pleased_.

Quite suddenly, there came a flurry of excitement from the stock room.

"Hey, check _this_ out!"

"Word . . . this is sure cool."

In a flash of red and blue the two brothers emerged from the back room, and held up a magnificent tuxedo before Butch. It was a black double-breasted suit length coat with shining satin lapels, a crisp white collar and a small white satin bow tie. There was a slight pocket slit on one side of the coat and a cummerbund — a broad sash over the waistband of the pants. It was also some twenty times bigger than Butch himself.

Butch stared at this model costume, and let his jaw meet the smooth floor.

"And furthermore . . ." Boomer added dramatically.

Brick reached down and slammed a pair of perfectly polished leather shoes onto the counter. Its glossy finish dazzled under the bright interior light.

"_Ta-da!_" Boomer sang. "The perfect tuxedo!"

The tailor looked at the three brothers, all red, green and blue eyes twinkling, looking like perfect little angels in a paradise of their own. If only they weren't made of such repulsive stuff.

"You want to rent it?" he asked.

All three faces fell simultaneously.

"Maybe not . . ."

"How much does it cost anyway?"

"And it's way, way, _way_ too big!"

"Yeah."

Brick turned to the owner and grinned sheepishly at him. He took off his cap, ran his hand through his hair and began his well-rehearsed request.

"Um, sir, I was thinking if you could have a . . . custom-made suit for Butch. Using that one as a model of course." He gestured to the tuxedo they had picked out, patting the sleeve. "_But!_ But, but, but, listen to this — if we have one custom-made I know it's gonna cost a bomb. But then the tux is for _him_ —" he gestured to Butch — "and, well . . . you wouldn't need a lot of fabric for that, would you? So I guess that would, at least, lower the cost a _bit_ . . ."

The man touched his goatee again, this time a slight smile unfurling on his face. "Are you indicating that you have no money?" he suggested.

"Busted!" Boomer winced.

"Not really . . ." Butch turned to his brothers anxiously. "How much have you got?"

Brick dug into his pockets and proudly pulled out a ten-dollar bill and a small mountain of coins. "The pizza guy said I was very efficient, and this was my pay!" he declared.

"Yeah, and by the time the pizzas got to the customers half the cheese had already been flattened to one side of the box already," muttered Boomer.

Brick ignored the sarcasm. "Then I was planning to save this for the electricity bills . . . but for the sake of my —"

"Aw, just shut up about that!" Butch cut in, flushing.

Boomer, snickering, placed a squashed mess of notes next to Brick's pile. "A fiver, two one-dollars and sixty-five cents," he rattled.

Brick decided not to ask any further about the origin of the cash, as there was a probability that it came from 'downstairs'. "What about you, Butch?" he asked.

"I ain't got any money," Butch confessed. "I spent all of it in the arcade . . ."

For a moment Brick felt like punching him, but then he decided not to — who knows what that Buttercup would do if Butch went with a bruised face? "Well," he said instead. "I guess that makes about twenty bucks. Is it enough?"

The owner's smile had by then become a very amused grin. "We'll see, we'll see. It's a challenge to make a tuxedo given _your _size . . . Come here," he ordered to Butch. "I'll take your measurements."

Butch almost did a green firework display while the other two slapped victorious hi-fives. "Thank you!" he cried excitedly. "Thank you boss! You're my life-saver!"

"Yeah, now you owe me two . . ." Brick unturned his empty pockets and glared at Butch, now grinning from ear to ear (assuming he has any) as the man took his dimensions with a miniscule measuring tape.

_Same old brand new me,_ Butch thought smugly. _She'll be _so_ bowled over by my makeover . . ._

– – –

". . . make way! We're coming!"

"Watch out!" cried Blossom.

_WHAM!_ This was a tremendous crash.

And this was silence.

"What's the hurry, Buttercup?" Blossom exclaimed angrily.

Buttercup hovered in mid-air, folding her arms and snickering at the tangled heap of metal — a mixture of silver, black, red and blue — in the middle of the cross junction. "I just like to see car crashes."

"You're _sick_," moaned Blossom. "I'm still can't believe you're _my_ sister."

Buttercup shrugged. "Suit yourself." She sped off in a green ribbon of light, which led right into the neat little house in the suburbs. A pink trail closely followed.

"Oh well," Bubbles sighed, making her own way home in a meandering path of blue. "And life goes on."

– – –

"I'm beat." Blossom flopped onto the couch.

"I'm hungry." Bubbles flopped onto the couch.

"I'm the only one in the whole world who _never_ gets tired just because of a few hours of school."

Blossom glared at Buttercup hovering above them. _Why does she always have to oppose me_? she thought, fuming.

"You're back, girls," called Professor Utonium from the kitchen. "How was your day?"

"It was great!" Bubbles exclaimed, sitting up suddenly. Then, pigtails bouncing, she started to gush, "We did a lot of colouring today, and—"

"No way!" Buttercup interjected. "Colouring sucks! At least not to you, arty-farty."

"_Buttercup._" The Professor's voice was stern. "I heard that_._"

She shrank into her chair by the dining table, sulking. Blossom snickered, and slid into her own chair next to Buttercup's.

"It was fine, actually," she said evenly. "Nothing special."

The Professor came in from the kitchen, and smiled at Blossom's sensibility. He loaded pancakes onto the girls' plates and poured maple syrup over them. "Tuck in, girls," he said, probably pleased that the pancakes weren't burnt this time.

There was a few minutes of rare silence as foamy bits of pancake appeared and disappeared from between two sets of teeth, coupled by the delicious squishing of thick syrup. Blossom was simply chewing her food like a polite grown-up would.

"By the way, girls . . ." Professor Utonium started. All three girls stopped in their lunch, and their silver forks paused in mid-air and mid-mouth.

The Professor cleared his throat, and eyed at them carefully. "What happened to . . . the phone?"

Buttercup hacked.

"It broke into two," Bubbles supplied.

The Professor gave a strained smile. "I can see that, Bubbles — but _who_ did it?"

Both pink and blue eyes narrowed down towards the blinking green ones that was in the middle of each pair. "Who, me?" Buttercup asked innocently.

Professor Utonium sighed. "What happened exactly, Buttercup?" he asked. "And what's with all that shouting yesterday? I was trying to come up with a formula that would make all of you fly faster when—"

"But I didn't do it on purpose!" Buttercup blurted.

The Professor looked at her, somewhat smug that she had admitted to her mistake. "Care to tell me what happened, then?" he asked.

Buttercup put her fork down and stared at the table. "Well, we were all just watching TV and suddenly the phone rang and Blossom picked it up and it was for me and . . ."

"And then?"

"It was Butch," Blossom cut in.

"Butch?" The Professor blinked at her.

"One of the Rowdyruff Boys," Bubbles supplied again.

"Really."

"And he asked her out for a date," Blossom concluded. "Tomorrow night at six at the park entrance."

The Professor spluttered out his coffee. "_Pardon?_" he cried out.

Buttercup was just wincing at his reaction when suddenly something dawned on her, and crashed down like a granite rock squarely on her head.

She whirled to face Blossom. "How did _you_ know that?" she demanded.

"Know what?" asked Blossom.

"The . . . the time, the place . . ."

Blossom rolled her eyes. "_Please,_ you were screaming so loudly. Of course I could hear you."

"But I thought Buttercup didn't mention the time?" Bubbles quipped. And it was then that Blossom got a little bit uneasy.

Buttercup suddenly remembered the phone in Blossom's room. (Of course, the Professor had approved of that, too.)

"You were _eavesdropping_," Buttercup snarled.

"I wasn't!"

"You were _eavesdropping!_"

"I was _not!_"

"Was _too!_"

"Was _not!_"

"Was—"

"_Girls!_ This is getting out of hand!" The Professor shouted. Then, as though his energy was suddenly exhausted from this outburst, he slumped back into his chair. "I . . . I get it now . . ." He let the truth sink in for a few seconds further before saying, "We'll leave the date for later. First—"

Blossom hung her head low.

"It's wrong of you to listen to other people's conversations over the phone, Blossom. I don't want it to happen again, or I'll cut your line. Is that understood?"

Her head bobbed up and down slightly.

"And _you._" Buttercup forced an embarrassed grin as Professor Utonium looked at her. "A _date._ I suppose that's just a tad _too_ early isn't it?"

"Er. Is it?" Her grin became wider.

"And by six it's rather dark already. Granted, you have superpowers, but I still think it's unsafe. You're a girl after all." Buttercup's grin vanished at this last sentence. "And who knows what that . . . that _Rowdyruff Boy_ would do to you."

"So does that mean . . ." Buttercup trailed off.

The Professor smiled apologetically and said, "A definite no-no."

"_Great._ Now I have nothing to boast about," the green girl muttered, leaning back into her chair, miffed. Bubbles caught the comment and giggled. Blossom was trying to glare at either of them without actually turning her head.

The Professor shook his head with a smile. Of course. His girls were growing up. Too fast, in fact. Things were going to take a definite turn after this.

– – –

"_Nooo!_"

"Oh _yes!_" Boomer whistled. "I . . . I can't find a _word_ to describe this . . ."

"Meaning it _sucks!_"

"No, no, no, no, leave it on!" Boomer forced Butch's arms off his face, and turned him towards the mirror again. "You see? It's a tuxedo all right. No mistakes about that. And you look totally _cool_."

"Oh really," Butch sighed bitterly. "I'm that impressed."

Brick was still laughing his cap off at one side of the store, clutching his stomach and practically tearing the stripe off his shirt. "_Gawd!_" he howled. "You . . . you look like a dorky _penguin!_"

"_What?_" Butch cried. He clutched at his cowlick and wailed towards the ceiling in despair.

Brick slammed his cap onto the floor repeatedly and continued guffawing, the tears streaming out of his oversized eyes as he caught a few more glances of his brother — in a custom-tailored little tuxedo complete with a shining white satin bow tie, no less.

"Well?" the tailor asked, suddenly appearing from the stock room.

Butch pulled at the two butterfly ends of his tie. "I dunno," he sighed again. "I think this is too . . . too snug for me . . . is it?"

"_Hahaha!_ Now you look like a _dumpling!_"

"Oh just _shut up,_ bro." Boomer punched a laughing Brick in the shoulder, then exclaimed, "We need to give Butch our _full_ support, remember?"

The blond-haired boy then turned to the tailor. "Are you sure that was the same design as the one we saw?" he asked, though uncertainly.

The tailor narrowed his eyes at Boomer. Then his gaze shifted over to Brick — finally settling down but still bursting into small chuckles every now and then — and to Butch, who was half pleased with the outcome and half convinced that he really looked stupid.

"Of course I'm sure," replied the owner. "And I've added _something_ else to that suit too."

Butch snapped his head up to look at him. "You added _what?_" he cried hysterically. "_Itching powder? Fleas?_"

"Nope." The man only smiled a secretive smile. "Watch _this_."

He whipped a small controller out of a small box at the side of the glass counter, and extended its slim antenna. With a nudge of a button, the black suit on Butch suddenly shuddered, and a ripple ran down from the shoulders down to the sleeves, and to the pants.

Brick stopped laughing.

All three boys stared agape at Butch's suit. It looked so _shiny_ all of a sudden.

Boomer was the first to recover. "Wow. What's that?"

The burly man smiled an even wider smile. "The cloth was immersed in electricity for a few days, and now it's power-charged. The negatively charged field keeps the tux wrinkle-free for a week, and the positively charged field sends an electric current to any target and you can decide what you want the current to do to that person or object."

Now the awe dropped from Boomer's face. "Woah," he commented, in a rather obligatory manner.

"You invented this thing yourself?" Brick asked.

"Sort of."

Brick rubbed his hands together excitedly, even though he — or either of his brothers — had absolutely no idea what the tailor's jargon was all about. "That's so _sci-fi,_ dude! Can I wear it then?"

The other three shot him a firm 'I wonder who took this tux as a joke earlier' kind of look.

"Okay, okay, fine," Brick mumbled, retreating. "My loss."

"Does that mean," wondered Butch, "that I can zap Buttercup to make her go all jelly when she sees me?"

"Depends on whether that tux wants to cooperate." And the moment the tailor spoke the last syllable, there came a second shock of electricity that radiated all over Butch's tuxedo.

"_Aaarrrggghhhhh!_"

"Oh, sorry. Wrong lever."

"Gimme _that._" Boomer snatched the controller over from the tailor. "So . . . how much is all this in total?"

The owner drummed his fingers on the counter. "The total cost for the cloth is about ten dollars, but if you count in the tailoring and the cost of the electricity . . ."

"Damn . . . and our bills are high enough already," Brick grumbled lowly.

"But hey," Boomer protested. "For the sake of our _beloved_ bro we must at least—"

"_Just shut up about that will ya?_" Butch yelled. He grabbed the tin of money in Brick's pocket, and drew out the ten-dollar bill before giving the rest to the tailor.

"I'll take this tux, I'll take it," he said hastily. "And please boss, I need the ten bucks for a present for my — my date! Yes! So . . . I just need it. I really do. Please, boss. Okay? Okay? Deal."

The speed at which Butch flew out of the store after his speech was enough to produce a whole barrel of green exhaust with stars sprinkled in it —

"I hope that 'present' he's talking about is gonna be flowers or something," Boomer mumbled.

— right into the arcade.

"_Noooo!_" the two remaining brothers cried.

"The bills!"

"My money!"

"Uh, boys . . ." the owner trailed off.

But in a flash of red and blue, both Brick and Boomer had already gone. The owner stared at the rusty tin in his hands and sighed. "Well," he sighed to himself. "At least I helped them. And that special piece of fabric _has_ got to be used someday . . ."

_-tbc-_

* * *

I still can't imagine any of the RRB in a tuxedo, though. xD

Stay tuned!


	3. Girl Extraordinaire

Enjoy this last chapter! Woo! :D

Disclaimer: All related characters and elements are (c) Craig McCracken.

**The Tuxedo  
**_Chapter 3: Girl Extraordinaire_

* * *

And — on an incredibly ironic note — so dawns the 'tomorrow night' that is the date.

– – –

A shadowed figure pressed her back against the wall, her eyes darting left, right, then left again.

Coast clear!

Silently she swept her way across to the other side of the hallway, next to a door with a horridly pink sign:

_Do Not Disturb!_

Buttercup snickered. "Rules are meant to be broken, signs are meant to be changed," she told herself. She whipped out a black marker pen and scrawled all over the 'Not' until it was one black mess.

The TV set continueed to blast from the other room.

Her mission was now one-third accomplished. She was still in danger zone.

She picked up the hideously pink receiver from its usual place on the personal telephone, and stuck out her tongue at it. "You suck," she mouthed at it.

On the phone itself, she dialled twelve zeroes and waited. Someone picked it up after several hundred rings, and mumbled lazily into the other end. "Yeesh?"

Buttercup cleared her throat. _Here goes._

"Well, we meet again, MJ," she growled in a deep voice.

– – –

Mojo sat up in his observatory.

"_You!_ We _meet_ again? Do I know you? I have never heard from you before! I have never seen you before! How can you meet someone you have never ever—"

"Oh, _shut up!_ Have you done what I've told you to do?"

"Oh, so it is _you._ Sure I did. I did what you told me. It is done by me." The primate scratched his gigantic turban and sighed. "But this time I could not find any snails, so I was clever enough to put in frills instead, because there were no snails. But — curse the accursed Powerpuff Girls — now they have gone all _soft_ like those girls! They are not the _Rowdyruff Girls!_ They ought to be rough and rowdy like boys and not powdery and puffy like girls! And they have run away somewhere like girls do!"

"Okay. It's their presence that matters, not the stuff that goes into their making." In the short pause in between Mojo thought he heard some low chuckling at the other end. "Now, you have another chance to get hold of more Chemical X."

"_Again?_ What you gave me the last time was so dilute! So diluted it was that I, Mojo Jojo, could not do anything with it! There is nothing to be done with Chemical X of that concentration! What can there—"

"I promise a stronger concentration this time."

The diabolical ape pondered for a second. Fortunately, he weighed the pros and cons carefully this time. Unfortunately, he did not see through the disguise of the person at the other end of the conversation. "Deal. It is a deal, and Mojo has dealed a deal with you. Now what do I do?"

– – –

_Click._

This time, the receiver did not snap into half. And Buttercup was _utterly_ pleased with herself. She had actually taken into consideration her handprints on the phone, and furiously rubbed them away until till the keypad and receiver were squeaky clean.

Mission two-thirds accomplished.

– – –

"_Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!_" This was the annoying Hotline buzzing.

Blossom picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"_Sfpchrrunk!_" This was the Mayor's distress call.

"The town's being attacked by a million giant army ants?" Then, to herself, "_At this time?_ That's strange!" Then, back to the Mayor, "We're on!"

"Aww," Bubbles whined, while enjoying her daily dose of The Urnshole Gang. "Just when it's getting so exciting . . ."

"Ah, _quit it!_" demanded Buttercup. "Let's get moving!"

Blossom raised an eyebrow at her. _For once she decides to side with me,_ she thought.

"Be careful girls," the Professor called from his laboratory downstairs. "It's getting dark. And come home in time for dinner!"

Halfway across the town a few seconds later, the green trail suddenly lagged behind the pink and blue. Blossom and Bubbles executed a hairpin turn, then braked themselves to a stop in front of Buttercup, who was cringing in pain and just being a pretty convincing actress.

"Hey, you guys," she groaned. "I think I've got a stomachache . . . I needa go home quick! Go without me . . . I'll get back home first . . . _argh_ it hurts like . . ."

"Like what?" Blossom prompted suspiciously.

Buttercup narrowed her eyes down at her. "I know you won't allow me to say _that_ word, smarty-pants," she retorted.

"Oh _no!_" wailed Bubbles. She pointed to a cluster of skyscrapers in the distance. "That big black mass over there! It's coming closer! We'd better go now!"

"And actually . . ." Buttercup feigned a sheepish look and confessed, "I'm kinda scared of ants."

This was a lie.

"Hah!" Blossom hovered above her sisters smugly, having not realised Buttercup's fib about her phobia. "See you, then. And do _take care,_" she added with a scoff. She sped off with Bubbles to the turbulent black mass that was an army of giant savage ants, and proceeded to knock them all into oblivion.

Mission accomplished.

"Woohoo!" Buttercup whooped and sent a laser punch into the air. A red streak of energy shot from her hand, bounced off a stray cloud in the evening sky, and landed as a small explosion somewhere near the park. She blew at her hand, pretending it was a pistol that someone like James Bond would have.

"A _date,_" she declared, grinning impishly. "Now how's _that_ for a change . . ."

– – –

". . . change meeting place. Should I? Or shouldn't I?" Butch cracked open just one eye shakily, and stared at the sizzling tree a few metres from his bench in the park.

The boughs of said tree were perfectly singed to carbon, with smoke trails twirling rather prettily from them. In a melodramatic moment, a reasonably large branch cracked off the trunk and fell onto the ground into cinders. It had been struck by a strange bolt of red lightning just less than a minute ago, and that had shaken him and his 'date mood' up really bad.

Eventually Butch sighed. "It'd almost six," he mumbled to himself. "Maybe she was just kidding. Maybe she didn't want to come after all. Maybe she _fooled me!_" He slammed the small, wrapped box in his hand — hard — down onto the bench in a moment of frenzy.

"Oops." This was realisation at the latest possible moment.

Fumbling with the simple white ribbon and the complicated white butterfly bow, Butch tugged at the wrapping of the box. After a few grunts and mutters he finally managed to get all the ribbons undone, and impatiently opened the box.

"So, trying to keep that present for yourself before I'm here?"

– – –

This, of course, was Buttercup.

Butch whirled around on his seat and gasped to see his date, with her usual frock and shoes, and an expression of sheer annoyance —

— which quickly turned into a mixture of shock, surprise and what could only be 'a hint of trying too hard not to burst into laughter'.

"_Eh?_" Buttercup exclaimed. "I thought Halloween's over? What's with that getup?"

Butch cringed. The entire day had been one big cringe. He had been cringing for about two hours straight. He had no more cringe energy left. "_You_ were the one who suggested it!" he wailed to her helplessly. "And here I am waiting and just looking _stupid_ and _formal_ in this _thing_—" he tugged at his lapels — "and _eleven_ fossils had already come and seen me and pinched my face and cooed _'Oh soooo cute!'_ and—"

By then, Buttercup was already rolling on the ground and laughing the Mary Janes off her feet. Butch glared at her, suddenly irritated.

"Hey, if you don't stop I'm not gonna give you this—"

And before one can say 'okay I'll stop it', Buttercup was already sitting obediently beside her so-called beau, and staring down at the contents in the box.

"Are those chocolates?"

"_Swiss_ chocolates," Butch corrected in a mumble. "Exchanged it with ninety-nine tickets at the arcade." He sighed for perhaps the thousandth time that day. "If I have that winning streak every time I'm there . . ."

"You cheapskate." But she gingerly picked one shell-shaped chocolate anyway, and popped it into her mouth.

Butch looked on worriedly with his innocent dark green eyes.

And _PLOW_ he was sent flying into the trunk of the scorched tree, and with a very promising groan the whole thing came crashing down on him into a small mountain of ashes.

"You know," Buttercup mused, looking at the box as if nothing had gone wrong, "the expiry date says 31 February. Weird taste, though." She continued to chew thoughtfully.

"That's—" a voice spluttered — "That's because there's _no such date!_" Butch's head popped out from the top of the pile and yelled, "Argh! _Ptui!_ This tastes like _pencil lead!_"

She narrowed her eyes down at him. "No such date huh?" she repeated, in a rather dangerous manner. "Then let's call it off. Get your _butt_ outta there or I'm going home."

Since Butch — a new version as created once more by Mojo Jojo — was made of frills instead of snails, he became all soft to this emotional blackmail again. "Don't," he mumbled. "I risked a lot for this date you know." He floated out of the ashes like a sorry phoenix, and back to the bench, rubbing the top of his head and wincing.

"Like?" Buttercup sneered.

"My pride, my money, my—"

"_My foot!_" she spat. "That's peanuts! I risked my _life _for this."

Butch looked at her in surprise. "Really?"

"You can say that again." Buttercup shot another laser beam to the pile of ashes, to which an "Ack!" squeaked from it. A squirrel shot up from inside as if it had just sat on a needle, and scurried away in fright, singed bushy tail and all.

Buttercup laughed to herself at this self-conjured piece of dark humour. "Professor's going to kill me when I get back."

This Butch understood. "You sneaked out?"

"Sort of."

The two of them finished the remaining chocolates as the sky turned deep blue. A cool evening breeze started to blow. And given the couple's size, one could call it a gale.

"Er. Are . . . are you cold?"

"Nah. I'm hungry."

"Aw, shut up. You're such a _pig._" Butch ignored Buttercup's glare, and took off his black suit. "That's all I can loan you for now," he added.

He tossed the suit over Buttercup's small frame and — surprise! Buttercup started to blush. Rather furiously.

"What's that for?" Buttercup hissed, all the while glaring at her knees and not at Butch.

"Nothing." He forced a sheepish grin. "It's just . . ." Then he continued, in a very low voice, "It's just because I like you."

"_What?_"

"Huh? Oh, um . . ." Butch started to tug nervously at the sleeves of the white shirt he was in, his face turning into one ripening apple like Buttercup's was. (The only difference was that Butch had a cowlick that looked like the stalk of an apple, and Buttercup did not.) "Damn. I mean . . . I've been wanting to tell you this . . . I . . . _Damn!_ I mean, I mean . . ."

"Mind if I say something?" Buttercup cut in.

Butch broke out in both cold sweat drops and hot blood vessels. _Oh no,_ he thought. _Is she going to say she likes me too? Is she? Or maybe more than that! Or maybe she's going to say that—_

"_You're a total failure!_" Buttercup hollered at him. "First you ask me out. Then you get this stupid suit. And the tacky chocolates — but they taste _quite_ good anyway — and now you're not saying what you're supposed to say and you're wasting my—"

_Bip!_ This was a button on a controller box that had been inside the pocket of Butch's black trousers, and now whipped out of the pocket by its new owner.

_Make her shut up!_ Butch thought desperately, still holding down the button with all his might._ Make her shut up and make her listen to what I want to say and make her know what I don't have the guts to say and—_

_Bip!_ This was the return of silence.

For Buttercup herself was suddenly frozen in the midst of her tirade, and now staring blankly at Butch. Everything remained in this manner for a good minute — except the fact that her eyes were now swirling like two confused lollipops of vanilla and green apple.

Meekly, Butch stole a glance at the tiny flashing screen on the controller.

**WARNING!  
INFORMATION OVERLOAD!**

_Oops_, he thought.

_Bip!_ This was the return of normal.

Buttercup promptly snapped out of her trance. Her shoulders slumped, and her eyes returned to their normal colours as they blinked the aforementioned lollipops away.

Butch, bless him, decided to try again. "Okay, look here, Buttercup . . ."

"_Look here?_" his date screeched. "What do you mean, _look here?_ You're ordering me? D'you think _I'm_ the type that always get bossed around? Speak for yourself, you scaredy-cat!"

Butch spluttered at this outburst that was just _not_ supposed to happen. "W . . . what?"

"Now I know everything about you, Butchie-boy. _Everything._" Buttercup sneered at him. "Poor thing — you can't even sleep without a _light._ And you're _still_ wetting your bed! Ahahaha!" Her uncontrollable laughter lasted for some thirty seconds, and finally it stopped.

She leaned in really close to Butch's face, and leered slyly at him. "_I shall bring your darkest secrets to light,_" she promised, in a dangerous whisper, "_and make you cry behind your brothers' backs!_"

Butch was a lot of things at once — shocked and stunned and floored and boggled and dumfounded and gobsmacked and just totally _flabbergasted._ "H— ho— how did you _know?_" he cried.

Then it struck him.

_Make her know what I don't have the guts to say._

At this realisation, Butch's eyeballs nearly popped out. And so did his tears. "I . . . I didn't mean _that!_ I didn't mean to let you know all those things! It was — it was actually . . ."

Buttercup blinked innocently. "Actually what?" she asked.

"I . . ."

"_What?_"

". . . I _like_ you."

"_What?_ I can't hear you!"

"_I said I like you I really like you I really, really, really, really like you do you know that do you do you?_"

From the other side of the park a group of teenagers heard this yell of confession, and they hooted and whistled in glee.

At _this_ side of the park, though, everything was quite silent. Buttercup was staring at Butch, who by then was fighting back tears and trying to hide his face in his hands. One huge, fat tear unexpectedly made its way out of his eye and fell slowly down — so _painfully_ slowly, as if time was dilated and everything would come to a standstill if it continued—

"_No!_" Buttercup reached over and whipped the tear away before it could fall onto Butch's clean white shirt.

Butch looked up in wonder.

And — surprise again — Buttercup, spitfire and tomboy extraordinaire, is, after all, a _girl._ And naturally she has a _soft spot_ for something. It was only then that she herself realised what that was.

She blushed deeply.

"I . . ." Buttercup tried to force her words out as if she were trying to say to him what could only be the 'hardest word' in existence. "I— It's just that your suit looks expensive, y'know, and I don't want the . . . the _tears_ to spoil it . . ."

Butch blinked at her. "Really?"

She glared at him. "_Yes._ And—" Here she continued, in the same low whisper that Butch used when he first confessed, "I _think_ I like you too."

Fortunately, her last words were too soft for anyone to hear. Unfortunately, Butch wasn't just 'anyone'. Fortunately, Butch didn't go hysterical. Unfortunately, he did something worse than that afterwards.

"You what? You _what?_" Butch grabbed the startled Buttercup up by the neckline of her dress and demanded. Then suddenly he relaxed. "Say it again," he pleaded.

Buttercup gagged.

Butch's eyes shone even more brightly than the North Star about to implode upon itself. "Say it again," he repeated.

With the perfume _Great Reluctance_ sprayed all over her, Buttercup finally blushed one final blush and whimpered, "I _like_ you."

"Aw, so sweet!" Another old lady passed the unlikely green couple and cooed — without any cheek-pulling, though.

Butch himself was not relieved by this fact, and instead still happily basking in what Buttercup had admitted just before.

"Really? So . . . we're quits, then."

"_Shut up._"

For a few minutes the two of them sat on the bench, one looking like a tomato in waiter's uniform and the other looking like a tomato with a cape over a frock that looked as if it had not seen an iron for a long time. Then, Butch aimed the controller at Buttercup; with a press of the '-' button a negative charge built up, and both the suit and Buttercup's dress was rid of wrinkles.

Buttercup felt like killing herself for confessing. That was so . . . so _girlish!_ So un-herione-like! And so _disgusting!_ She felt like retching and punching Butch right to the other end of the Milky Way.

But _suddenly_ there was a warm, tingly feeling swirling inside her and all and . . . it didn't feel _so_ bad after all.

She chuckled to herself. Now she could find an excuse to stay at home and do nothing like Bubbles did after _her_ date. (Of course, that was fine even if it meant that _Blossom_ was the only one left to defend Townsville — she was _sure_ Blossom alone was powerful enough to do that _all by herself._)

Butch scratched his head. "Um, it's kinda late now . . . do you want to go back?" he asked timidly.

She narrowed her eyes at him, her purple eyelids overtaking the green of her irises. "You're _not_ coming to my house, I tell you," she snapped.

"I'm not—"

"And don't think you and your brothers can move in after today!"

"I said I'm—"

"Not forgetting that you can't sneak in and—"

"_Aw, shut up!_"

– – –

Slipping in was easy. Since her sisters were still out battling the army ants at the other end of Townsville, and the Professor was buried in paperwork and surrounded by chemicals in his laboratory, Buttercup could well fly in through the front window and back to the upstairs bedroom that she shared with Bubbles, pretending that she was sick.

But she didn't. Instead, she chose to enter by the small window of the bedroom, with Butch right behind. On his part, he was just relieved that his date had safely reached home.

"So . . ." he mumbled. "I'll be off now?"

"Yeah, yeah." Buttercup shoved him off the window ledge. "Now _get lost._"

"No wait!" He looked at her hesitantly. "You, ah, you forgot something."

"What? Oh yeah, you mean this coat?" She smacked it into his face.

"No, no, you can keep it. I mean . . . _that_."

"Heh?"

"You know . . ." Butch was by now a fumbling and mumbling bundle of shyness. "_That_."

Finally it dawned on Buttercup. And _horrors!_ He actually asked for _that!_ "No!" she yelled.

Butch looked hurt. "No?"

"Not _that!_"

"Why not?"

"I . . . _you_ might explode."

"No I won't! I promise!"

"What d'you mean, _you promise?_ It's just . . . it just sucks!"

"No it doesn't! It's — it's supposed to be . . . _romantic_!"

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

"Is n—"

_Smack. _This was Butch who succeeded in shutting Buttercup up. For a second or two, anyway.

"_Noooo!_" screamed Buttercup. "You — you — you stupid . . . _idiot!_" And after that came a flood of other bad words that the Professor would _never_ have allowed in the house — despite the fact that she was technically still _outside_ it.

"No, Buttercup! I—"

"_Get lost!_" Then she screamed blue murder, pink assassination and green homicide.

"Okay, okay I'm going!" Butch cried, waving his arms. And with just a hint of dejection, he flew away back to his lousy apartment.

– – –

"What was all that screaming, Buttercup? I could hear it all the way from the lab! And aren't you supposed to be out there with your sisters?"

Professor Utonium was peering in from the door to the bedroom, where Buttercup was tucked up in bed and looking back at him innocently.

"I . . . it's just, my head hurts real bad," she lied.

"Is it?" The Professor tutted. "Poor thing . . . do you suppose you've got a fever?"

"_Do I?_"

"Yup. It looks like it. I'll take your temperature . . ."

"I ain't got no fever," she protested.

"That's bad English. You're supposed to say 'I don't have a fever'."

"Nah. Who cares."

"_Buttercup!_"

"Aw, okay . . ."

The Professor took her temperature with a little green thermometer.

"A hundred and one," he read.

"_What?_"

"You've got a _fever_, Buttercup. And it's real high. I'll go get some Panadol."

And as the Professor let her lie in bed after taking the medicine, she thought back to what happened in the park earlier on. The tuxedo. The chocolates. The confession. And the . . . the . . . the stolen _kiss._ (Ew, what a _horrible_ word!) And how all that fitted together like a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle.

And though Buttercup wasn't really the soppy-romantic type, she _sure_ liked it.

"Especially if it's something that Blossom can't get," she mused, laughing to herself hysterically.

Now she snuggled into her light green covers. She slowly reached for the black suit that was hidden under the blanket, and held it tightly with a small smile. There was no need for any lucky blankie, she figured. The tuxedo suit was enough.

And so she slept, under the roof and the stars — and above a vial of extremely diluted Chemical X that was hidden under her bed _and_ clean forgotten from her mind.

– – –

Brick decided to risk his life after hearing his brother gush dreamily about his first (and perhaps only) date. He swallowed hard, then picked up the mobile phone — yet to be returned, in typical fashion — and dialled a familiar string of numbers.

"Um . . . may I speak to Blossom please?"

_-fin-_

* * *

Now that I look at it, I should have retained the snails and switched the 'puppy dog tails' to something like 'little kitty tails' instead — since it's Butch being wimpy and all, and not Boomer.

But anyway! I hope this fic was enjoyable! I had such a rubbishy time writing it (and editing too, damn!). :D


End file.
